Twenty One Against the Dealer
by TheRabidHOBBITFangirls
Summary: First solo fic by Aye. GeneFinny. He burns every pack of cards in the house, lets them burn away, scatter to ashes and dust and twisted bits of plastic. The neighbors call the next morning, to say that they saw some hoodlum trying to arson Gene's house.


Author's Note: Aye's very first solo fic. Please be kind. Or even better, be kind and review!

Addendum: I changed the format a bit, and edited a few paragraphs. It's not really that much different, but hopefully, it's a little better.

**Twenty One**

**Against the Dealer**

"Nights of blackjack and poker and unpredictable games invented by Phineas rose up in my mind. . . ."

**One**

"Go on," Phineas says, "bet."

Gene grins, one eyebrow half-cocked. "Oh, well, I'll bet –" and he slides the rest of his chips and money towards the center of the table, directly under the blanket-hung lamp.

There is a collective groan, and the others rise to meet his stakes, each looking sour, irate. Only Finny still smiles, lips crooked upwards in a secret and triumphant dare. Gene's eyes flick towards him.

"Right, then," Phineas' face is almost conspiratorial in its expression. The players spread their cards across the table, each announcing their score; nineteen, bust, seventeen, bust, bust.

"Twenty one," Gene says, fanning his cards across the table – jack, seven, three, ace.

"Twenty one," Phineas says, and it takes a second before Gene realizes that Finny's not repeating his words. His cards – nine, ten, two.

Twenty one against the dealer.

Phineas gives Gene a half-apologetic, half-exultant grin, and gathers in the pot. Something flickers across Gene's face – annoyance, maybe, or disappointment – but it is quickly forgotten as Gene howls melodramatically and pretends to strangle a laughing Finny.

**Two**

Sometimes they play poker instead of blackjack. It's mostly improvisational – a loss to Brinker means doing elephant impressions naked – and often humiliating – for example, running about the Far Commons in lace panties – but it's always interesting.

Finny is terrible at poker. Gene likes to watch Finny's changing expression and guess at his cards, feeling pleasantly superior when they lay down their cards and discover that, yes, Finny has a rum hand. Gene rakes in the cash, chips, and socks (Finny's) and thinks that Finny is far too transparent, too friendly, too honest to be much good at this game.

He is surprised when he loses everything to Phineas the round after. A surge of irritation brings him to his feet, away from the table. Someone calls after him, Bobby, perhaps, or Chet, but he is already shutting the door.

Later, Phineas comes up to their dormitory, sockless, but holding triumphantly in one hand ten dollars.

"I hope you weren't sore about losing to me," he says, jamming the money in the dresser, "because," he pulls off his sweater, "I would've probably given back your stuff anyways," unbuttons his shirt, "but, then again, maybe not," takes off the shirt with alarming athleticism, "since you did lose, and any man who loses should bear the consequences without complaining, and the man who wins should never feel any compunction at winning, unless he cheated," his shoes are kicked off without ceremony, "in which case he ought to be punished."

There is a small pause as Phineas sheds his slacks and underwear. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Also, if the other man is hopelessly outmatched, because that's almost cheating, since it is rather unfair."

Gene looks up at Finny from his bed, amused. "Then I suppose you think that fighting Hitler is unfair, since we have more troops than they do."

"Well, no, since it's right that we're fighting them. A man should have a cause to fight for, and we do. But that's not the point. Are you sore about losing?"

"Not really." The words come automatically; Gene doesn't really know.

"Good," Finny hops into bed nimbly, "It's just a game."

"It is just a game," Gene repeats, and he wonders why it doesn't feel like one.

**Three**

It's early in the morning; the sun has barely risen. Finny is dressing, hair wet against his head, singing off key and loudly.

"God, shut up," Gene groans, and flops over onto his back. Usually he's the early riser, but he had trouble falling asleep last night.

"Tuuuubaa miiiruum spargens sooooooonuuuuum," Finny sings – bellows – loudly, a note flat. He turns to face Gene, polo shirt in one hand. "Tu-ba mirum spargens sooonu-uu-umm."

Gene looks at Finny's lips forming the long vowels of clerical Latin, red, refined, and quirked upwards at the very edges. He flings a pillow at him, misses. Finny howls and tackles him, grabbing his hair, tickling him, biting him.

Gene yelps and laughs, kicking, smacking, until he falls off the bed with a resounding thump. Finny's madly disheveled head peers over the mattress, triumphant.

"I _win_."

**Four**

Someone – Brinker? Finny? – has gotten a carton of whiskey, quickly imbibed. They are all uproariously, wildly drunk.

"Fuck, Gene," Finny slurs, head buried in Gene's shoulder, "whiskey."

Gene is a little less drunk than Phineas, and he manages to maneuver their way through the door. It is a miracle, he reflects muzzily, that they made it up the stairs.

They topple to the floor, and Finny's nose digs into Gene's chest.

"Jesus." Finny burrows his face, feeling the fabric soothe his skin.

Gene huffs. "Finny," he says blearily, "get your damned snotty nose out of my shirt." He buries one hand in the other's hair and pulls.

Finny yowls, and slaps at the offending hand. He rolls over and finds Gene's stomach an apt pillow; Gene merely grunts and looks at the ceiling.

**Five**

Finny is ranting wildly about games and cards and chess and war. Gene watches him vaguely, more interested in the way shadows flicker across Finny's face and how his mouth moves to form words, muscles contracting, relaxing, tightening.

"And they shoot the pawns, always the pawns," Finny says, making indistinct gestures as his inebriated limbs flop about, half-hearted attempts towards a whole.

In the distance, someone's record player blares. The music barely touches Gene's ears, notes lilting and trilling. Mozart, he thinks.

"Gene. Gene, let's play cards." Finny stands up very slowly, swaying. From his pocket he produces a pack of cards, held in loose fingers. Gene, too, stands, and later, he can't remember how he managed.

They stumble to the table. Finny is far too drunk to properly cut and shuffle the cards. Gene wonders how he can even think, with all the whiskey he downed.

"Give," Gene says, yanking the cards from Finny's hands, "them to me."

He shuffles and cuts the deck, and deals. The cards splay messily over the table, but neither notices.

"War," Finny demands, slapping his first card face up and slightly to Gene's left.

They play, occasionally misreading numbers and taking wrong turns. It doesn't really matter, Gene thinks. It's only a game, a stupid, fucking game.

Finny says something; Gene doesn't remember what, he only looks at Finny's lips, a little chapped and flushed.

"Finny," Gene says, "shut up."

It is curious, the way their mouths tumble together, wet, slick, tasting of alcohol and oranges. The cards flutter to the floor; the chairs screech and fall. Gene's mind is blissfully empty, and all he feels are Finny's lips on his own, Finny's tongue, Finny's hands, Finny's hair.

They clutch and gasp, intoxicated with each other, drowning in something far more potent than any alcohol. Shirts, ties, socks – Gene lets out a hysterical giggle before arching into Finny's body and groaning – slacks, breathless moans, underwear litter the room, flung haphazardly away.

It's a little damp, a little sticky, fumbling and muddled, but Gene shudders and jerks against Finny, nearly biting through his lip as he struggles to contain his cry. Finny tenses, and Gene feels the tremor that shivers through his body.

There is silence but for the slowing rasp of their breathing.

**Six**

Gene rests his aching head on the cold tiles of the shower. He doesn't want to think about what happened last night – what happened and what could happen and why it happened. The hot spray cleans his body, but fails to clear his head.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. There are faint rings under his eyes, and he is paler than usual. He wonders what Finny will say when he wakes, wonders how long he can postpone the inevitable. He rubs a hand over his face and, hair only a little damp, enters the dormitory.

Finny is sprawled upon the bed, limbs silver in the dawning sun. Long dark lashes rest against his cheek, hair tousled picturesquely upon the snowy pillow. He could be a strange god of the Greeks, caught in a moment of beautiful frailty and repose.

Gene's chest constricts, and he shivers, remembering despite himself. Finny stirs, and Gene watches him move in fascination, skin over muscles over bones shifting, tensing. He stands by the bed, trembling fingers outstretched, barely touching.

There is a sigh. Blue eyes flick open, dilate, contract, focus on Gene.

He flees.

His feet trip down the stairs, stubbing his toes, cursing. He seeks the sanctuary of the library, and among the musty books and crooked carrels he finds Leper, reading.

Leper looks up at Gene with misty eyes. "Where's Phineas?"

"I don't know." The words tear themselves from his mouth, harsher than he expected.

Leper flinches.

"I – sorry," Gene apologizes lamely. Leper blinks and shrugs.

"You two are always together," he says dreamily. It is Gene's turn to flinch, and he wonders if people _know_.

"I have to go," Gene chokes, stumbling away from the rickety carrel. Leper says nothing, merely nods.

Gene breaks into a run as the library doors slam behind him.

It is unusually warm, warm like it should be in Dixie. The mid-morning sun beats down on his sweaty back and through his damp clothing he can feel the humid air weigh heavily against him, squeezing his chest, his lungs.

He slows to a walk as he reaches the chapel. His sweat turns cold and clammy on his skin as he enters; inside it is cool and dark. The stained-glass windows flood the narrow passageways of light with unexpected shafts of color.

He breathes in the clear air, feels the cool stone beneath him.

**Seven**

It is a while before Finny finds him there, still, quiet, at peace. Gene is faintly aware of a hand brushing the hair out of his face, of an amused chuckle, of the unforgiving rock under his hands.

He jerks awake.

"Oh," he says, struggling to sit up. "I –"

Finny grins at him, a happy grin, a goofy grin, a crazy loving grin. "If only Mr. Ludbury saw you, sleeping on the floor of the chapel."

And everything is alright, amazingly okay. Gene laughs, and pulls Finny down to the floor with him.

**Eight**

"Let's," Finny says, "go to the beach."

Their bicycles glide along the road, which is smooth, bumpy, irregular, nonexistant. They stop often; Finny's insane cycling tricks send him flying over his handlebars or sprawling into the dust, and then, of course, Gene has to properly stop laughing before he can lend a hand, and they are off, cycling again, Finny only a little worse for the wear.

"Once," Finny says, "when I was younger, I climbed onto the roof of the house. Just to see if I could do it."

Gene pictures Finny's strange amalgamation of a house that's partly old farm and new elegance and a miniature Finny dancing on the top.

"Naturally, Mother and the maids were in hysterics about it. Mother sent for a butler and a ladder, but it was too short, because I had gone up from the barn side, and then walked across to the third story side, the one with the," he gestures vaguely with one hand, "ells. So I just jumped off."

"You _just_ jumped off."

"Well, yes. I wanted to know what would happen."

"What did happen?"

"Oh, I sprained my ankle. Mother was furious later, after she had finished being terrified."

Gene laughs at this.

"And then. It felt like flying, do you know, suspension, and wings. It was nice. But it was all so slow, and I wanted to move, but I couldn't."

Gene looks at Finny and smiles a little. He is impossibility made corporeal.

**Nine**

The beach is empty, pure, and glorious. The sun beats down on them – the two, alone, two mouths, two hands intertwined, two cards – and Gene lies comfortably on the hot sand while Finny talks, laughs, dances, entertains.

Finny slips attempting to do a somersault, and he lands heavily on the sand beside Gene. Gene takes the opportunity to throw a leg over him and thump him in the chest, and the ensuing tussle ends in breathless laughter and sand and grit.

Finny's eyes are strangely luminescent as they look at Gene, brighter than the sun above them.

"Gene," he whispers, and their kisses are gentle and sandy.

They spend the night on the cool, blue-tinged beach. It is peacefully quiet, with only the soothing slap of the waves patting the sand.

Finny is drawing pictures in the sand by the fire. Gene leans over his shoulder to look.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing to a rather ungainly blob.

"Why, that's the king."

"What is he king of?"

"Hearts." Finny turns his head towards Gene and meets his lips in a kiss.

**Ten**

The tree is tremendous, an irate, steely black steeple beside the river.

"A double jump! Neat, eh?" Finny turns his head towards Gene, conspiracy gleaming in his blue eyes.

Gene feels something snarl at his chest, because he was wrong after all, wrong, wrong, wrong.

"What the hell," Finny had said, "It's only a game."

One fucking game, the game of his life, and he lost, everything's lost, game over, over, you lose.

They climb up the tree, stand unsteadily on the branch. Gene jerks it, hard, because it is only a game, the way Finny falls is a game, nothing but fun and games.

**Eleven**

In Dixie, at home, Gene can't help but think about Finny, Phineas, and the tree and the cards and the beach and his glowing blue eyes looking at him blocking the sun. Swirling, swirling, everything swirls, swirls into a blackness. Black is the absence of light, yet white light is everything – why is everything so dark?

He eats sparingly, sleeps irregularly. He finds himself wandering the streets at night sometimes, kicking errant bales of hay. His parents let him be, thinking of his poor, poor friend – what's his name? Oh, yeah, Phin-ay-es, the charming ath-a-lete boy-yeh.

He burns every pack of cards in the house, lets them burn away, scatter to ashes and dust and twisted bits of plastic. The neighbors call the next morning, to say that they saw some hoodlum trying to arson Gene's house.

He breathes Finny's name – Phin-ay-es, drawled all suh-ther-r-n and cuhn-try – as he shudders and bucks against clammy sheets.

He pokes at his peas and rice, and asks to be excused while his mother exchanges looks with his father, then nods.

He sits in his room for countless hours, tracing the wood of his desk, snapping at anyone who disturbs him.

And he wants nothing more than to make it stop.

**Twelve**

When Gene travels up to Boston by train, he is immediately struck by how invigorating the climate is. He has missed the cold, trees, and air of the north.

"Did you know," Phineas says conversationally, "whenever you come up from Dixie, you've always got this sort of country drawl," he imitates Gene's accent with the last two words.

"Oh," Gene says, looking at everything but Finny, "do I?"

"Yeah," Finny says, "you do." He hauls himself to his feet.

"Shouldn't you," Gene attempts, "Doesn't it."

"Nah," and Gene is enveloped in a bruising hug.

"I missed you," Gene whispers, burying his face against Finny's shoulder – still so strong, after all, all this.

"Yeah. Me, too."

**Thirteen**

The sudden frisson between them yawns emptily. Gene wants to shove something in his mouth, take back those words, his confession, curse, swear, vomit.

"I don't know anything. Go away. I'm tired and you make me sick. Go away."

And Gene's insides twist like knives plunging into flesh. Finny sits there, looking pale, invalid – Finny can't be sick, he's never sick, can't be a cripple – and Gene hurts, hurts all over; he's crippled, too.

**Fourteen**

When Finny comes back up to Devon, everything feels slightly unreal. Phineas is there, but Devon still isn't Devon, never will be Devon without Finny's carelessness, his strength.

It pains him every time to see Finny pause for breath on their way to class, stings to have to help him into bed, out of bed, into the shower, hurts to see him hobble like some, some _cripple_ – no one should be this dependent, least of all Finny.

He watches Finny struggle with his crutches as others turn away, embarrassed.

Perhaps half a Finny isn't better than none after all.

**Fifteen**

Finny can't stand the talk of war. He says it doesn't exist, doesn't matter. It's true; they have no evidence of war here. No pain, no suffering, only restless peace and uneasy friendships.

Finny's taken it into his head that Gene ought to go out for sports – too close to games, Gene thinks belatedly. They run every morning – Gene panting around the silent, snow-covered track, Finny leaning against a tree, watching him – train every morning – Gene pulling himself up on iron bars while Finny counts and encourages – live every morning – Gene's lips pressing against Finny's, Finny pulling Gene towards him. Finny seems to live through Gene, now, but Gene doesn't mind, because Finny is what he lives for.

**Sixteen**

"You're really going, then." The words fall to the ground, flat, unquestioning.

"Leper sounded like he was in trouble."

"He probably deserted."

"No reason not to go check."

"Am I not a reason?"

Gene looks up at Finny sharply. Finny's dark head is turned away; an unhappy flush has flooded his face.

"Why," Gene speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully, "would you be a reason not to go?"

"You always leave. You're always leaving." The words are thick and choked; Finny has always been terrible at hiding his emotions (poker, it whispers, poker-face).

A terrible disconcerting silence. And then: "But I always come back."

And Finny smiles at this, and tilts his face up towards Gene like a flower to the sun. "Yes. You do always come back."

**Seventeen**

Let us pray, Brinker says.

It's funny, how automatically the body responds to certain conditions: the touch of a lover's hand, small noises in the darkness, a pastor's voice calling all to pray.

It's funny, the way sound waves travel about the hall, about the building, speeding and rebounding against the walls, traveling towards the ear, the brain.

It's even funnier, the way a simple slip of the foot can bring someone tumbling, tumbling down.

As Gene's mind slips slowly away, the only thing he can think is, You do always come back.

**Eighteen**

"I believe you. It's okay because I understand and I believe you. You've already shown me and I believe you."

Gene's tears spill white-hot against Finny's lap, Finny's own tears steal past his eyelids and drip on Gene's hair.

"Finny, Finny," Gene whispers, clutching the flannel of Finny's pajamas. His nose is swollen, his eyes are red, but Finny kisses him anyways, caressing Gene's hair, touching, comforting. It is a while before Gene quiets, silence punctuated by a shuddering, tear-filled breath.

"Finny," Gene says, looking up. Finny touches his cheek in response; Gene thinks there is nothing in the world so noble as Phineas' profile now above him. "Finny, believe me when I say – I love you, Finny."

It's not a game anymore, though he never thought it was.

**Nineteen**

Heady passion clouds the senses, heightens them, twists everything into tall spires of pleasure. Small moans, gasps, whimpers punctuate the cool air about them (what if someone – doesn't matter – i love you). They kiss, mingling mouths and tongues and everything.

I've never – it's okay, neither have I – how –? Oh, _God_.

One fills the other, whole, undivided, perfect. Filled within, complete. Shiver, rock – it doesn't take long before everything gushes forth in perfect, exhilarating synchrony.

Gene slips away with a smile gracing his lips, Finny's lips.

**Twenty**

He lies on the floor of Finny's bedroom in Boston, head spinning. A trickle of blood seeps from his nose, as if to make up for tears from his eyes – hemoglobin, he thinks, carbon and hydrogen atoms, long, twisted chains of carbon, humans, life.

He wrenches himself forward, forces himself to dress. Finny's funeral is in an hour; he must leave soon, and anyway, Finny's parents wouldn't appreciate him bleeding all over the floor.

Wipes the blood away.

He tucks in his shirt carefully, neatly knots the tie, laces his shoes. He wonders how much attention he can pay to the very tiny details before he misses the picture.

When he steps out of Finny's room, smelling of Finny, wearing his socks – his fucking socks! – he is perfectly composed, at ease, and he wonders if it is only because he is perfectly insane.

**Twenty One**

The wind blows hollowly about them, though the flowers have begun to bud and the trees have burst into brilliant foliage. The sun shines brightly, and the only indication of tragedy is the wind, blowing, blowing.

His tears are dry before they ever fall; the roses atop the somber dark coffin crumble to dust; a single playing card flutters hopelessly in the wind.

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

**Bust**


End file.
